


Echoes of Henry Gordon

by Crocmon



Series: Echoes of Henry Gordon [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Final Fantasy XIV: A Realm Reborn, Gen, Henry Gordon - Freeform, Isekai, Limsa Lominsa (Final Fantasy XIV), New Jersey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27805690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crocmon/pseuds/Crocmon
Summary: (Contains and/or rips story elements from Shadowbringers! This work is best viewed after completing SHB's MSQ!)Of all the people summoned to Eorzea in its time of need, Henry Gordon would find himself trapped in a fantasy realm he had never heard of and would never consider fantasy after landing within. Hailing from Trenton, New Jersey, the former-accountant would go from freshly-fired to permanently-tired within hours of landing in the Eorzean atmosphere. However, he ends up finding his way around well-enough for a first-timer.
Series: Echoes of Henry Gordon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034463
Kudos: 11





	1. Limsa Lets You Down Lightly

Henry Gordon had just quit his job. This was not a good thing.

The brown-haired twenty-something had been told he would work forty hours a week officially, but was expected to finish his projects to such an extent that he would have reasonably needed at least one clone to complete. Two clones would have made it not only require less than forty hours a week from each person, but also be done in half the time.

Henry was told he could either file the report in a week’s time or find a new job. So he went looking, after getting roaring drunk and flinging an empty vodka bottle at his boss’s car. He had finished the entire bottle in an hour, and between bouts of nausea that never quite boiled over into vomiting he managed to track down his boss’s parking garage by remembering all the odd stories. A hot dog stand with a foul joke as its logo? Easy, he found that stand. The owner didn’t take it home, instead chained it up somewhere as if it were as important to him as a bicycle.

That confirmed it: his boss hated that about the vendor. His boss was an absolute cockass.

Henry was now on the roof of his apartment complex, feeling like he was king of the world as the wind ran through his chestnut-brown hair. He had put on purple contacts, and wore some ridiculous Ren-Faire gear he had stolen from an ex-girlfriend, in order to Live-Action Roleplay some goofy Dungeons and Dragons character he made up while drunk. He looked like a total goofball, with some sort of jacket over a shirt, tied together over some sort of undershirt, shorts, and thigh-boots. He felt that if he’d brought his feet together, he might crush some vital bits of his pride. Really, it was a hodge-podge of random stuff he stole from a closet that he figured might look like an RPG character, which was what Ren-Fairs ended up being in his eyes.

Drunk, goofy, and feeling he was capable of flight, he leaned back to inhale and sing. He forgot, however, that his back was to the ledge. He caught himself, staggered a little, and laughed at his brush with death before singing anyway. It was slurred, probably off-key, but it came from his heart. He sang of breaking through, of becoming great.

Unfortunately, his audience was not very forgiving. A man came up the stairs, and threw a boot at Henry’s head. It connected, making him stagger backward. This time, though, his balance was lost completely. The audience member who realized how badly he’d screwed up scrambled to save Henry, but to no avail. As the freshly unemployed accountant fell several stories, he covered his face with his arms and braced his whole body for something that never came. Even in Trenton, New Jersey, the mystery of the vanishing singer would be told for some time. The man was gone in a flash of light, with a discernible circle enveloping him moments before he hit the ground.

Instead, he found himself floating in an abyss. He felt a strange, friendly warmth envelope him. He blinked hard, thinking at any point he’d slam into the ground and snap his neck, but no matter how many times he repeated the expression he stayed floating in space. He swung his eyes around, seeing a massive crystal. There was a flurry of emotions, sensations, and conversation in where he listened to this giant crystal tell him that he would need to listen, feel, and think. Or something, he had the sudden impression that he was astronomically high, and was not entirely paying attention.

_When could I afford weed_ this _good?_ He mentally asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Heed my words, Henry Gordon, _you are not hallucinating._ You have been chosen.”

_Shit._

Henry saw _something_ charge him. It was inky black, malevolent and just wrong. He willed himself to fight back, wanting to push it away from him and get a better angle at it. Instead, he felt his left hand fill with a book, and his right hand traced a geometry he _felt_ that he knew by heart before swinging the pages forward to unleash some manner of devastation. However, the darkness enveloped him, but as he closed his eyes he felt a warm light once again wash over him. He felt that he was laying flat on his back, but in full awareness of his surroundings. He shot up from his position, and realized it was a couch of some sort. His eyes darted about the wooden room he was in, and he heard a creaking noise as his body began to sweat. The weather was warm, but his sweat and shallow breathing was not from the salty air. He felt like he was breathing in too much air at once, it was _too_ clean.

He staggered up the stairs, falling backward and rolling about until he stood on one bent knee. He looked up, seeing two white-haired twins with fair features and _elf_ ears.

_Elves._

They slept soundly, with one slowly fluttering her eyes. He had no way of telling precisely, but guessed by the structure of the face. It was too round, too soft. His vision began to swim, and he felt the room list to one side, with both of the elves leaning on their heads together.

_This is a boat._

After staggering backward, Henry clamored up the stairs again, throwing open double-doors and squinting under the brilliant shine of a tropical sun. Throwing a hand before his eyes instinctively, he staggered across the deck. A man wearing a bandana with a knowing grin laughed, which did little to ease Henry’s stomach as he slammed against the railing and emptied his stomach into the glistening water. He watched his tossed cookies pass by at a remarkable speed, and as the ship listed slightly he felt a strong hand catch his shirt. Jerked back, he steadied himself with his arms out to the laughter of the bearded man once more.

“Ya haven’ been sailin’ often, ‘ave ya lad?” Henry wanted to say that he understood the language, he even felt the words in his mind like he had, but he had no memory of ever learning it. His head hurt, gently, but he found his mouth forming words in an identical language:

“No, only smelled ‘em,” He rattled off in a language he never remembered learning. It was as if something had slapped the memories into his head, replacing English with this strange language. He inhaled, looking up, finding too much air in his uptake of breath and becoming terrorized to find out that he had a vision of sails. His jump had to be obvious as the man laughed.

“Well, your mouth will fit ya right in, that it will, adventurer.”

“Adventurer?”

“Aye, that’s what ya are, innit?”

“I mean,” Henry looked down at himself, and despite himself he could only laugh at his goofy attire, “I guess so,”

“Ha! It explains your getup, at least!”

“My getup? What about-” Henry wanted to continue on his witty repartee, but he realized that the sailor’s attire was far more fitting. “Er, where are we going?”

“Why, Limsa Lominsa, o’course. Finest port in all o’ Eorzea, if’n y’don’ mind the pirates.”

“Pirates?”

Almost as if on cue, there was shouting from around the deck, and a muffled explosion preceded a loud crash in the water that sprayed Henry’s face.

“Aye, lad! Get below deck, we’ll outrun ‘em!”

In a blur of motion, Henry leaped as he was directed to jump and waited out the attack with slightly chattering teeth. Just _slightly_ chattering, though, he swore. The entire time, though, those blasted twins slept. Henry couldn’t figure out why that annoyed the piss out of him, but it did. They were the only ones that weren’t concerned, and it somehow infuriated him.

Once the threat had passed, the captain’s boisterous laughter rang out once more, and Henry came back to the upper decks to see pearly white concrete connecting to a more traditional, wooden kind of dock, which seemed to turn into a multi-level city. From where he was already, he saw several streets with wooden walkways overhead, and his eyes struggled to find a single place that was not packed with people.

“Is that Lim-” Henry stumbled on the word, initially from awe but then was completely unable to form the words, “Lis- Er, limousine?” This utter failure at pronunciation caused a hand to slap between his shoulders in a gentle blow meant to console.

“Aye, lad, it’s Limsa Lominsa! And don’ worry ‘bout it, I can tell you’re meant for greater things. Limsa lets ya down lightly, if you fall.”

“It’s a town that worries about pirates, and you say it lets me down lightly?”

“Aye, lad, so long as ya don’t get stabbed in a dark alley, anyroad.” The man showed his teeth as he threw his head back and laughed, “I know a few, I can help ya get ya bearin’ in this wild port-town. Just ease into it, n’ you’ll be a part of this place as much as it becomes part o’ you.”

And thus started the life of Henry Gordon.


	2. Book Juggling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry Gordon becomes far too comfortable for Limsa Lominsa, and as such he finds himself hungover and in no small amount of trouble. Having conned his way into a night of free drinks, he has explaining to do to the acting Master of the Arcanists' Guild. One of the many things he must explain is how he did it.

Thubyrgeim Guldweitzwyn sat across the desk from a man who reeked of alcohol, wore outlandish clothing, and above all else had somehow snaked his way into cheating the local tax authority out of at least five thousand Gil in the two days he had been in town, and then using a bank note to buy drinks at the Drowning Wench. He was sharp, but he was an unkempt mess who she dragged from a ditch. Literally, in this case, he was in a ditch and hungover even several hours after the fact. However, he had a book placed before him filled with ledgers and accounts to balance.

She scowled at him as he slowly used his fingers to track off things, and used a quill and parchment to make his own notes in a chicken-scratch equivalent of Eorzean Basic. It was like he had been taught it once, forgot, and was discovering he could write as he was doing it. One thing she noted, however, was that his writing was gradually improving. When he first wrote his outlandish name, it looked as if he was freshly taught how to write.

_Now,_ she mused, _he could fool a commoner that he was educated._

“Okay, done,” he said, “Dude’s numbers check out, mostly.”

_“Mostly?”_ the Roegadyn woman hissed with as much incredulity as she could pack in her voice.

“Yea, so based off what you gave me, the client has his… Gil?” the man spoke as if he had no idea what Gil was despite being at least in his twenties, “I’m just going to say ‘coin.’ But, his coin has been mostly balanced that a cursory glance doesn’t tell you anything is wrong. You look it over twice, maybe three times, and you won’t notice. The _sheer amount_ of entries will make you miss the odd few coins that just ‘disappear.’ Doing this kind of thing by hand, such a number is bound to happen. However, he always has a miscellaneous entry at the end of the month. Typically, not having a note somewhere detailing what that means could just mean he’s forgetful. But compare that to the _sheer amount of entries_ , and you know this guy doesn’t forget anything,” the man put his hand by his mouth as if to be coy and whisper “Or he just notes it immediately as it happens,” before laughing. He resumes: “Take not even five minu-”

Her scowl cut him off. He’d been calling all the measurements of time wrong since she woke him up in the ditch. K’lyhia was the one to track him down, but she insisted that Thubyrgeim be the one to drag his drunken hide into the guild. She was starting to suspect it was for a distaste of alcohol. Truthfully, the acting-guildmaster felt a buzz coming from his smell alone.

“Sorry, a bell,” he nodded, as if he should have known that despite clearly having no idea what it meant while using it, “But, you look over this and you notice that every single mistake in math equals out to this miscellaneous cost. He knows exactly what this money is spent on. Now, this could be two things, either he double-checks his own numbers and says it’s ‘miscellaneous spending’ to make himself feel better, or he’s using that as a cover for something else.”

She looked over his work, reading the ledger herself, and giving a huff through her nose.

“Well, my initial thought was to throw you to the guard and let them put you in the stocks, or they would press-gang you onto a merchant vessel, but _clearly_ you have a knack for numbers.”

“Yea, I had to juggle numbers back home.”

“Back home?” Thubyrgeim raised a brow as the boy pressed his palm to his eye, suppressing an eye roll as he groaned at the headache he had from his migraine. He’d been hamming up how badly his head hurt for at least two hours before he finally shut up, and now that he was not distracted by the ledger he _suddenly_ felt pain again.

“Yea, in New Jersey.”

“What nation is that from?”

“America, y’know, with the eagles n’ stuff?”

“I have never heard of any place called America.”

“Oh man,” he groaned, “I am _so_ screwed. How am I gonna pay re-” He froze.

“Something wrong?”

“Yea, I just realized I fell off a building in Jersey and woke up on that boat.”

He began breathing heavily, gripping his side of the desk as his eyes widened and he stared at the ledger. He began chattering along, whining about his job, and how he needed to get home. Feeling strangely compelled to offer comfort, she cleared her throat. He looked directly at her, wide-eyed with terror.

“You are in Eorzea, specifically Limsa Lominsa. While I have no idea where you got your alleged birthplace and name, _Hen-u-ree,_ ”

“Henry,” he said, starting to relax with a smirk, “Henry Gordon,”

“Hen-” She tried to curl her mouth around the odd word, “Henry Gordon, I’ve no idea where your name came from but I can _assure you_ that you are perfectly safe in this office. Only place you’d be safer is in the guild proper. _However_ ,” She replaced the ledger with a closed grimoire, “I think I can arrange that as well.”

“Are you offering me a job?”

“Yes, you would be joining the Arcanist’s Guild.”

“Arcanist sounds neat. ‘Arcanist Henry Gordon’ has a nice ring to it, so I’m in. Just one question: what do we do?”

“We trace the geometries of the world around us to conjure magicks and call upon entities of the Aether,”

“Nice, math-wizard!” He smiled, quickly leaving his panicked state as he drew his elbows into his torso, “But considering I’ve not heard a single spell get cast except in the Aetheryte Plaza, _what’s our day work?_ I remember someone in robes like yours arguing with a giant bird-man about tariffs for an hour. Are we-”

“We provide our mathematical expertise to the local tax and import offices.” Thubyrgeim smiled as she said this, which she thought was how Henry received it as well. However, he put both his hands on his face and held his fingers in his hair.

“Jesus _Christ,_ I can’t believe it,”

“Excuse me?”

“I was an accountant in Jersey and now I’m a _magic_ accountant. You never escape accounting. _My college friends weren’t joking._ ”

“You’re college educated? How is it you write like a twelve year old?”

“Imagine never having written a language before but _knowing_ how to write it. You gotta convince your hand you know what the words mean. I can’t even remember my mother-tongue anymore, all those memories got replaced by every idea of that. You have to train the hands to work again."

"Well, I suppose somebody will buy that idea. Don't make me regret you. I've a task for you. A simple inspection of some training cargo."

"To be honest, not a bad first job as a magical accountant."

"Arcanist,"

"Same thing."


	3. Decorating the Undeserving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After defeating a myriad of problems plaguing Limsa Lominsa, Henry Gordon finds himself in the company of Admiral Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn. However, there is an uneasy air about him as his Echo removes him from his own festivities, and an Archon from the Scions of the Seventh Dawn provides her strict counsel to the Admiral.

Admiral Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn was watching the hero who thwarted a massive Sahagin invasion and was quickly becoming a town-favorite Arcanist scarf down food as if he’d never eaten before in his life. Upon being asked about that, he smiled.

“Ain’t never been fed like _this_ before, Admiral,” he said with a mouthful of fruits. He swallowed, and washed it down with a bottle of wine. She raised her brow as the bottle hit his lips, and thought she might strain her face as he downed the whole thing in one gulp, “Especially not with wine like _that_ , holy crap,”

There was a moment of tension, as people around the room were entirely unsure how to react to his crass statement, but when Merlwyb picked up the bottle and looked at the wine from a common market stall elicit such high praise from a Gods-given hero, she laughed aloud. The tension dissolved, and instantly everyone in the room felt the mirth.

“Quite, my young hero, quite. You know, we have mythical heroes known as the Warriors of Light.”

“I’ve heard of them,” Henry responds in the pause, “What of them?”

“They were heroes before the Calamity, and try as we might we cannot remember their faces. Merely their deeds, and the blinding Light at their backs which reminds us of the burning sun. They showed up mysteriously, and are the reason we still exist today.”

“They sound pretty cool,” Henry nodded, finding himself sliding closer to a young Miqo’te officer, “Shame they’re gone though.”

“Actually,” She laughed at his irreverence, finding it refreshing, “I don’t believe they are. I think some of them walk among us, content to rest on their laurels. I am of the belief that they seek to live happily in a world that has dramatically changed since their disappearance during the Calamity. That they may not be far from us, and their warmth being as the morning sun on our backs.”

“Well,” He smiled, “I hope I didn’t step on their toes,”

“Nay, I’d be so bold as to say you remind me of them. Excep-”

“Don’t,” Henry said with an uneasy laughter and a strange smile, “Please,”

“-t I can firmly commit your face to memory. You have come into this town like a storm, but you have touched the lives of so many here. No matter your misgivings, I believe your heart is true. I’d be so bold as to call _you_ a Warrior of Light,” There was an uneasy silence from the others in the room, but Henry’s protests did little to stop her from speaking her mind. Henry slowly stood up from his seat, startling the Miqo’te woman who was on his arm. He turned to his companion, steadying her with his left arm as she adjusted her weight in the chair. However, his eyes started rolling in the back of his head and his right hand pressed immediately to his head.

“Nononono not _now,_ ” he said, staggering backward and collapsing on the floor. He began muttering about ‘LSD rocks’ and Hydaelyn in his stupor, and Merlwyb quickly swung her hands about to indicate he needed to be seen to.

“Take him to the inn, he’s had too much to drink, and he’s earned some rest. Let him do so, and waive any fees he may incur as per my order.”

Merlwyb looked to the Miqo’te woman known as Y’Shtola, who nodded at the Admiral. A silent confirmation of what both suspected. The Admiral pointed to the Archon, and indicated she was to follow her to a balcony.

“Tell me what you know of him,” she demanded of Y’Shtola.

“His Aetheric Signature is unique,” She spoke on demand with the voice of someone who was trained to respond as ordered but held resentment at being ordered, “And I believe it is because he was chosen by Hydaelyn.”

“A Warrior of Light?” Admiral Bloefhiswyn snorted, “And he handles his liquor so poorly,” She jokes, casting an eye to see the Archon’s reaction.

“As much as I’m inclined to agree, his episode then was not from the liquor. No, he has a hardier constitution than that. What I think may have been triggered by his clear stress at being lauded as a hero is evidence of his possessing the Echo.”

“The _Echo?_ Then he truly _is_ chosen by Hydaelyn. He may very well be the Warrior of Light of our time.”

“I have many doubts that he is _that_ heroic,” Y’Shtola insisted, “But he has a gift. One we may utilize.”

“Must you be so cold _all the time_ , Y’Shtola? He is so fresh from his homeland and he is already saving ours. Call him what he is: a hero.”

“With how fervently he denies the title, I think you may be pushing him into a mould he otherwise would not fill. Forcing him along may cause him to react dramatically as he progresses on his journey. It would be impossible to predict what he may do in future stressful situations.”

“Impossible is a word coined by the weak, you know this. He will grow into the hero Eorzea needs, one adventure, or misadventure, at a time.”

“Perhaps, but it is _certainly_ used by those who know the depths of folly found in completely disregarding the odds of negative repercussions.”

“Archon, you act as if gambits are entirely worthless to our cause.”

“I call certain gambits for what they are: playing with fire. You’re decorating a man who considers himself undeserving. You risk him trying to discredit one accolade, and then successfully discrediting every reward he’s ever been given.”

There was a long silence.

“Will that be all, Admiral?” Y’Shtola asked, as if she cared for the protocol. The Admiral knew she was already stepping out, and merely waved her hand with a nasal exhalation. The gesture was nothing more than formally closing the conversation, which was less for the participants and more for the onlookers.

“Hopefully it is you who is wrong, Archon. _Hopefully it is you._ ”


	4. Usefully Useless, Like That Song!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming into his own as an adventurer, Henry Gordon finds himself an emissary for the various nations of Eorzea. He takes up scattered heroic causes, only to find himself accosted by a troop of beastfolk, the Amalj'aa, who seek to offer him up to their god, Ifrit. Henry, however, he finds he is far more than they anticipated.

Henry summoned a Carbuncle, and it playfully mewled at him as if it had no idea what Hell it had put him through. He picked it up, its mewling becoming comical as he flung it into a small underground pond, where it quickly drowned and dissipated. He scowled.

A woman with horns asked him how many times he intended to do that. He responded, quickly, with "However many it takes to get out of here."

He summoned another one, this time carrying it by the nape of its neck and drowning it by hand. Truthfully, there was some catharsis in being so pointlessly cruel to something that was once explained as an extension of himself. Though, soon the Carbuncles just decided to be totally silent and dissipate immediately upon touching the water. It was as if the part of him that manifested the Carbuncles grew tired of the catharsis, needing something more. He summoned another Emerald Carbuncle, sent it along, and watched it carve "Brooks Was Here" in the wall with its claws while he stewed in the puddle. He crossed his legs, the water lapping against his upper lip as he tried to convince himself that he could just _lay_ in the water.

He wondered if the bugs would eat him, assuming he just sat perfectly still. He missed his booze. He missed that lovely cat-lady, Y'Shtola. He missed simple things, despite them being a source of pain in his life. He'd been mostly sober, and somehow ended up thrust into the position of a hero. So, he tried to be day-drunk. He wanted so badly to let go of this heroism, to do _one last thing_ and be able to retire. But, he wasn't that good a hero. He had not won that immense a battle, his coffers would never fill.

He'd never even get a pleasant look from a woman that did not also want to use his talents for their own ends. From Y'Shtola to the Admiral to whatever the Isghardian woman's name was, they all saw him as some sort of gods-given hero. They all wanted him to thrust his metaphorical sword into the root of any problem they had, and they wanted _so badly_ to feed him with things to keep him going. He flirted with a dangerous philosophy here, one that he thought he left in Jersey.

He was basically a challenge, a thought, a lone figure that would solve all of their problems. He'd taken down Satsasha, he fought at that Tam-Tara thing, he fought with whatever that robed asshole was. Any problem that arouse quickly became _Henry's_ problem, because somehow the Scions of the Seventh Dawn were the ones who could fix everything. He felt sick of it. Why was this nobody from New Jersey the perfect solution to their problems?

As he stewed in his emotions, he felt the horned woman approach him. She introduced herself, Henry introduced himself, and they swapped stories. As the Carbuncle's task finished, it trotted along the water to see him. He grabbed it, shoved it under the water, and after it bubbled for a moment in a frustrating, defiantly innocent 'meow,' it dissipated.

"You... Need to talk about things?" The woman asked.

"No." Henry affirmed. He did, but he wasn't about to let anyone know it. They would hopefully feel better about their imminent deaths by being able to see Henry and say "well at least I'm not that guy," or something. They looked up to Henry, though. That made him want to sink his head in the water: these people somewhat looked up to him and his band of adventurers. As he lowered his face into the water, he felt confused as something grabbed the back of _his_ neck and yanked him out of the water. A snarling Amalj'aa barked orders at him, which his Echo translated, and he reluctantly played along. He watched the horned woman from before steal away, and considered it was for the best.

He was going to die. And honestly, it was a pretty good run.

There was a fair amount of rambling, the Amalj'aa did whatever they were gonna do for this ritual sacrifice. They summoned their god, a spindly devil of flames that barked foul obscenities that Henry pretended to care about. There was a tired, depressed familiarity in this ordeal though. Like he'd been here before. He'd wrestled whatever lived in Satsasha, he cast spells and told his Carbuncle to vomit wind at whatever was in Tam-Tara, and now he was going to meet some ugly, flame-broiled horny toad. He spoke that, expecting to die on the spot.

"Your will is strong, I see!" The demon barked, "I will see you rise again, as one of my faithful! Feed me your faith!"

As Henry felt the flames wash over him and the others around him, he covered his face.

* * *

Back at the Waking Sands, Thancred Waters and Y'Shtola Rhul wonder with varied concern at the fate of the Immortal Flames' squad. With Henry tagging along, they had surely nothing to fear.

"I fear he has been, finally, brought in over his head," Y'Shtola insisted.

"Nay, he's a natural hero," Thancred countered.

"You overestimate what he is,"

"No. I know what he _must_ be. People don't just appear claiming to be from other worlds without some divine intervention. Madman or not, his deeds have established he can hold his own in any form of combat."

"But what if we've sent him into a trap? Think, Thancred, why would they be abducting so many people?"

"We know why. They're offerings to their Primal, Ifrit, in an attempt to summon the beast and take out civilization as we know it."

"But what good would live specimens do if they've not summoned the deity already?"

Thancred considered his drink, and as he stared at the herbal tea they had procured from an Ul'dahn merchant, a coin dropped. Thancred leaped from his seat, nearly knocking it over, and dashing out the door. He nearly ran into Minfilia, floating his hands a mere ilms from her sides as she jumped in shock. He quickly blurted out: "Henry's going to get Tempered!" and ran. Y'Shtola drew her lips tight, scooting her tea away from her.

She got the boy killed. With one simple joke, _she set him up for failure._ He would be Tempered, and Eorzea would lose one of its most treasured people before it even fully understood the potential he had. His aether would disperse, and she felt sick as she considered how likely it was that any entity with that unique a signature could ever reform.

It was less than one percent, by her estimates. Just like the cure for being Tempered.

* * *

Henry Gordon's entire body tensed, he felt terror, he felt heat, he felt everything. However, he didn't feel any different. As he lowered his arms and looked about him, he realized the flames had parted around him, igniting on some strange field about him. The beast roared, raving about how the Paragons warned about beings like him. It spewed inane bullshit, and Henry Gordon knew of nothing he could do beyond draw his magic geometry book and face the beast of Ifrit alone. He looked about, and saw others join him. Adventurers much like him, seemingly in the nearby area. He scowled, shouting that they should run. Alas, they said they saw a buffoon immune to Tempering, and were going to see him through the day. They refused to explain what that was, insisting he should have known.

A great battle ensued. He traced lines in the aether around this arena, and he grabbed the lines to bend them into a reality that would see Ifrit die. His mind filled with a network of possibilities, and he felt the flow of an Arcanist just... Click. There wasn't anything he could do, but he remembered a song. He cackled as his hands traced a sigil in the air. Ifrit recoiled at Henry's laughter.

"Okay it's Henry G, homegirl drop it like the NASDAQ!" He shouted, reaching his hands into a fold of aether that created a mirror of Ifrit's claws. His eyes took on a glow, as he funneled aether from Ifrit, through his own Arcanist spells, and back into Ifrit. effectively, he would grab the fire-god with its own arms and tell Ifrit to stop hitting itself.

Massive claws snatched at the arms of Ifrit, digging into the chest musculature. Henry had dropped his book on his Carbuncle's head, and as Ifrit roared in fury, he gave a ferocious tug. He closed his eyes, for he did not want to see whatever that thing's guts looked like. As he fell to his knees from the force of his forceful yank, he punched the dirt and coughed.

"These others are afraid of him," Henry chuckled as he struggled to stand, "Cuz I'm a beast, bitch, Gir! Invader Zim," he laughed, and the euphoria left his mind. He looked around, and the others dropped their jaws. "What, never heard someone rap before?"

Thancred spoke first.

_"Wait,_ is 'rapping' what you call _tearing a Primal in half with its own arms?"_

Henry's mood dropped down his spine and he was grateful he didn't soil himself. He knew that gross oversimplification of what he did - simply using the magic of the Arcanist's geometry - would get him into far, far more trouble. He collapsed.


	5. I'm Doomed, And Blessed, I Guess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After defeating Ifrit, Henry Gordon is a little stressed out. The Scions of the Seventh Dawn demonstrate that they may not fully be aware of how to handle someone that is not desensitized to the Hell that is Eorzean life. None of the involved parties are particularly aware of how ill-equipped the others are, and an innocent joke makes an otherwise playful excursion into a borderline nightmare.
> 
> CW: Survivor's Guilt illustrated, alcohol mention

Henry Gordon hung from a tree branch, his stomach in open revolt against his awful choice of coping mechanism: alcohol. He coughed, having stolen some privacy to clear his mind of a terrible stupor, he felt something push him. He then rolled off the rock, through the bush, and into thorny foliage. When he stood, not only was he in intense pain but his stomach finally said enough was enough and unleashed its contents all over the brush. He was supposed to be looking out for evidence that the Tempered Sylphs did not show signs of anything lasting against Gridania.

Instead, he found one was feeling mischievous and wanted to push a bumbling drunk of a man.

He looked at his hands, summoning a Carbuncle with a thought to make it do a wind-gust that would help him clean off. It took a little more effort, and a few plants, but he managed to wipe his face off and leave little evidence on his person that he'd had an upset stomach. The brush, though, was not so lucky. He considered his search concluded, and staggered back up the hill, pulling from a flask he had been issued by the Immortal Flames. He didn't remember enlisting with them, but they gave him a Chocobo. That Chocobo was named Hank, and it was a bird that was rambunctious and unruly.

But when Henry declared that it would be called "Hank the Pigeon," he felt a connection to the animal. It jumped up and down, and it felt like he'd made a friend. An honest friend, that steadied his hands by giving him something to clutch when the shakes got too powerful. His hands used to be steady, but after dealing with the fact that he was immune to Ifrit's tempering through sheer dumb luck (he remembered being corrected but he could not care to accept that correction), he could not help but think of his allies in that squadron. He vaguely remembered enlisting to make up for their loss. That, and the uniforms looked kind of cool. Though, he regretted not joining the Maelstrom once he saw one of their officers.

He liked slick coats. Sue him.

But, in all reality, he would wake up at night from terrors, those brave men at his side who were captured and tempered. He remembered their fervent prayers to Ifrit, and he heard them shouting. In his dream, they always were bound together, sinking in water. Henry had an emergency life-vest, one that inflated with a pull of a cord, solely because he was from New Jersey, where such a thing was normal. The men reached up at him as he rose from the water, and some nights he would brush his fingers against theirs as he rocketed to the surface. He'd woken up with sweat-soaked sheets so much that his chocobo had been trained to tilt its head at him whenever he raised his head.

Henry often slept in the street, feeling unworthy of the inns. His trusty steed, the grey bird known as "Hank the Pigeon," would cuddle up with him and ease his worries.

He whistled for his bird, only to find it was behind him the whole time. He forgot when he gave it the cabbage-thing the breeder said would make them fight at his side, but he scratched Hank's chest as he approached. He wanted to find Yda and Papalymo and go home. They'd found what they needed, fought an Ascian or whatever was in the Thousand Maws of Totorak or whatever it was called, and he hiked a leg over the horsebird's saddle with an uneasy footing. He felt nauseous again, and he heard a weak, caring "kweh" from his best friend.

"Hank," Henry said, steadying his world as the bird walked slowly forward, "You get me, and I know He ain't watchin' here, _but I thank God for you._ If I start hurling, you've permission to throw me in a soft bush. I won't be mad," He laughed. The bird stopped, craned its head around to tap Henry's head in acknowledgment with its beak, and then chirped as it walked forward. If Hank could speak, Henry imagined it would say something like "don't get any on my feathers unless you want to clean me," or some kind of snarky remark.

_He'd never know, but Hank the Pigeon could at least understand what Henry meant by thanking God._

Returning to the Sylph camp, he found Yda and Papalymo. He took a pull from his flask, hearing Papalymo talk like usual. By now, Henry should have expected it. But something drew his ire: they weren't in the dungeon. They weren't nearly dying to unspeakable ground horrors. Henry nodded at explanations about how Primals were unique, and he pretended to not have already made up his mind on them: they were all soul-eating monsters of unspeakable horror. So what if they looked and acted different? The Garleans he saw in his Echo had the right idea, and he was starting to think the Scions had it too. Primals were dangerous, and they needed to be put down. Henry took a missive for the horned girl he barely remembered the name of, and Yda said something to Papalymo.

Papalymo asked if that was a jibe. He went on about how only he'd be able to pick up such a jibe, and gave some witty remark. Was it in humor? Henry didn't know. He just felt _mad._ He considered his flask, inhaled, and felt a bubble in his gut. He didn't want to let it interrupt his momentum, though.

"B-" He belched, "-Ro, she was simply sayin' you sh-tood to learn from this'un," He hiccuped as he pointed his flask to Frixio, "And you're _just needlessly bein' a_ _dick_. Remind me which of us actually saved Frixio from that hole in the ground, _you knee-high fuck?_ For a smart guy, you are such an _inconsiderate_ _prick._ "

"I-" Papalymo stopped. There was an audible silence. Henry could not see Yda's face, but as her hand moved to her mouth he knew she was reacting intensely. Papalymo sputtered, his face turning red. His stuffy voice climbed at least two octaves, before he finally mustered the composure to speak: _"I've never!"_

"Maybe you should more often, _asshole?_ You're like," Henry sharply inhaled, suppressing another belch with his free fist, "Pretending to give a shit, but where were you when I got shoved down some rocky path and nearly died? Huh?" He hiccuped, "I literally just got shoved down a fuckin' ravine and you just _conveniently_ show up, not a single care at all for the fact that I rode in hanging off my buddy Hank like a corpse, n' all you wanna do is jusht-" Henry exhaled through his pursed lips, fighting back teary-eyed nausea, _"Just talk shit."_

"Henry that's enough, you made your point!" Yda said, and both of the men froze, "We will make our way back to the Waking Sands, to report our findings. We will see you there," She ordered. Henry suddenly felt white-heat on the back of his neck as Yda and Papalymo said their formal goodbyes, and he exposed his palms. The Sylph known as Frixio had more to tell Henry, and he had a vision from his Crystals, to which Frixio simply looked at him with a face of sad understanding.

"Walking one is destined to walk a fate far crueler than this one can imagine. The brilliant light from within walking one enveloped the crystal - this one saw. Walking one is on a arduous path. Please, this one pleads: do not push other walking ones away."

* * *

After returning to the Waking Sands, but before he could meet Minfilia, Henry was confronted by Yda. She had her thumb between her teeth, an odd expression that Henry could not imagine the pugilist using normally. But, now she had it worn like an accessory to her being.

"Henry, about what happened in the Shroud," She asked, and Henry just furrowed his brow and grabbed at the nape of his own neck to show his embarrassment at it, "No, don't feel bad. He, well he _did_ deserve it. But," there was hesitation in her voice. She moved her hands to her chest level, grabbing her left thumb with her entire right hand, "Are you aware that that's just... How we are? He and I?"

Henry slowly opened his eyes, seeing how she stood, and he felt some pull in his chest. He wasn't sure what it was, but he felt an odd want to tell her something. He knew he should not be smitten with her. He had no idea what she looked like under that mask. She was fit, she was chipper, and her air-headed ways were not exactly a bad thing.

"I didn't know that," Henry said. He smacked his lips, still rubbing the back of his neck, "I just... I _really_ didn't. Honestly, I was pretty wasted. I'd just fallen through some ravine, and when he hit you with that, I just decided to let him have it. And honestly? I'm sorry. He did _not_ deserve to hear me like that, even if he needed a reprimand. I-"

"I know what you're going to say," She sighed, "You think I should stand up for myself, but it's-"

"No," Henry cut her off, "No. I just... I'm sorry. After the business with Ifrit, things have been really, _really_ weird right now. I don't sleep well, I have nightmares, and the only time I feel even kind of happy is when I'm too drunk to function. But I keep getting roped into these missions to fight monsters and punch Primals and..."

"Henry," Yda spoke, a hand going to his shoulder. She firmly grasped his right shoulder, her free hand going to his left, "You need rest, and I-"

Henry shook his head. He gently removed her hand from his shoulder, but could not bring himself to twist his own wrist out of her hand. Instead, he started to walk toward the Solarium. Minfilia needed his report, or what he had not already said over the linkpearl. Yda's hand held to Henry's wrist, and she turned around slowly to watch after him as he walked, his shoulders sunken and his head leaning forward as he continued to rub the back of his neck.

She let go, just as she would have needed to lift her hand to stay at his side. There was a lot here she did not know how to help, but this came not from a lack of want. She watched the sad Outlander walk through the double doors, and her lip quivered, if only for a moment.


	6. Proud Moments, And A Lack Thereof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After returning to the Waking Sands, Henry makes an unpleasant detour. He finds himself taking a short respite, and quickly finds more reason to feel like he's come up short in this whole debacle he calls a life.

Henry sits, kicking his feet on the table, and leans back in his chair. The Waking Sands had an okay bar, provisioned by an alright person or two. He did very little to learn their names, beyond lament with them that the Scions would not allow his Chocobo into the building proper. He crossed his arms over his stomach, and he eased into a short nap. His exhaustion peaked, to the point that he had neither a dream nor the awareness that Yda had come to sit with him. Followed by Papalymo, the pair discovered how deep his sleep was when he snored loudly after having his foot poked by Papalymo's staff.

Soon, Thancred joined the table. Then Y'Shtola, and Urianger. Before long, the table was full of Scions conversing and enjoying a nice drink or two. Nothing like a party, purely social interaction that was more of a lunchbreak.

Henry slept soundly, the din of the Scions around him penetrating his subconscious to bring him back to a college dorm's common area, where he would often just sleep on a couch and relax to the sounds of his suitemates ambling about, answering phone calls, or doing whatever it was they did. He was happy to be an observer, to watch their lives and catch up on some shut-eye at the same time.

However, the topic of conversation came to a curiosity about Henry's life. It became a round-robin attempt to wake him, playful stuff at first, until it eventually turned into a stacking game, empty cups stacking on his body. He slowly stirred, waking up as a cup was being delicately balanced on the toes of his shoes. He laughed at the prospect, and his sleeping mind called the name of a roommate.

"Oh? Who is that, a lover?" Thancred asked. Henry shifted his head, slowly, feeling a cup on his head. His bleary eyes saw Minfilia behind Thancred, and the humor of the scene calmed Henry's nerves at the cups. He chuckled, shaking his head gently to dispel the question. He took nearly a full minute to guide the cups off his body and onto the table, counting them in his head until he finally took the one from his head off and put it on the table. He shouted "fourteen!" and clapped three times in applause before sighing, and finally replying to Thancred.

"Nah, old friend. From home, when I was in college."

"I still do not know from where thine education comes, Henry Gordon," Urianger asked, "Pray tell?"

"Indeed," Y'Shtola echoed, "I would like to know as well. What studies are available in your home? How long did you need to study in order to earn a passive education?"

"Well, the degree-" Henry said, and this caused an intake of breath from the room, "What?"

 _"You've a degree?!"_ Minfilia said, her eyes wide, "In what?" This caused Henry to blink. He looked at his hands.

"Accounting," He said quickly, "Studied four years for a Bachelor's, and-"

"A degree in _accounting?_ Surely you jest," Y'Shtola said, "Do they have such diverse fields of scholarly pursuits that one would pursue a single profession so thoroughly? Or, as thoroughly as one could achieve in merely four years."

"It may seem strange, Madam Rhul, alas the land that Sir Gordon claims is his home may indeed have made education far more accessible as a whole. Perhaps education is so available in New Jersey that he holds the pursuit of a career separate from his primary education?" Urianger added.

"Actually," Henry said, lowering his feet and leaning into the table, elbows on it, "That's about the gist. From about," Henry counts on his finger, "Five to eighteen years old I'm in primary school. Then I was able to either just go out into the world and pursue work or go seek higher education."

"From such a young age? Then the average intelligence of your home must be amazing, compared to Eorzea!" Yda added, the hidden stars in her eyes being betrayed by her voice's excitement.

"You would be very surprised. Especially where I was, it was a very mixed bag. Most people take on a lot of debt to get the degree I did. Say my yearly salary where I was working was," He counted on his hands to help him multiply an average sum, "Well I was going to make about twenty-nine thousand dollars a year, and-"

"What is that in Gil?" Papalymo interrupted, his bitterness at the outburst from the Shroud showing itself in his abrupt question.

"Well, that's a very hard say. Er-" Henry pursed his lips, "Let's say a hundred gil is roughly a dollar. So over a year, I'd make... Give or take some change, the approximation of two-point-nine million Gil? I think."

"You could buy a house with a year's work, maybe two," Minfilia said, "A small one, at the very least."

"Really?" Henry's head raised in surprise.

"And what did you do when you weren't in school, as a youth?" Papalymo asked, "What did your parents do, did you farm? Mine? Smith?"

"Oh God no," Henry said, producing two Allagan pieces to put in the 'Jesus Jar.' It was half full, "My folks ran a restaurant. Part of what got me to think about accounting was watching them pay a guy boatloads of money to help them manage their expenses. The dude just checked ledgers all day, said things were good, and helped my parents budget for their little tourist-trap. As a kid, I'd help with them for some spending money, but I was hardly expected to do anything like learn their profession. So long as I passed my tests, they didn't threaten to tell me I'd have to wait tables for a living. Not that there's anything wrong with that," Henry nervously laughed, "But my folks wanted me to choose that job only if I really wanted it."

"Good grades?" Yda asked, "What do you mean?"

"Every semester we had little report cards. They told us how we were doing, and my folks always held me to a good standard. I had that, and then I had to take these big tests every year to tell the state how well I was learning."

"Standardized tests?" Y'Shtola asked, tapping her chin, "Every year? Your schooling was far more rigorous than what most in Eorzea have."

"Yea, it kind of sucked, but everyone did it."

Urianger nodded, and when he was about to say something, Yda interrupted: "Everyone?!"

"Yep."

"It must have cost a lot, I presume?" She added.

"Nope, it was mandatory for all kids to do it. Parents paid for it in taxes but there really weren't any entry fees to speak of."

There was a surprised exhalation from a few in the room: their image of New Jersey shaping up to be far better than it actually was. If everyone was so educated, some murmured, life would certainly be far better. The technological marvels Henry often explained abruptly would make more sense if the baseline of education for all people was raised so. Imagine not needing a wealthy title or family to have a child get such a structured education! Novel concept.

"Then, holding a degree, and expecting such a salary, you must have been quite a figure in New Jersey," Y'Shtola asked. Henry initially wanted to nod, but scowled as he considered it. He lived in a single bedroom apartment, struggled to get the job he had, and was somehow capable of getting stuck under a student loan that, by numbers, he should have been able to pay off within a year or two. But, car problems, girlfriends, and general living got in the way of that.

"Well, not really," he conceded, "Degrees were uncommon at worst, especially in my field. I have a knack for accounting, and can juggle books with most, but I was far from an influential sort." Y'Shtola blinked, nodding, Henry felt an urge to reply to that: "I kind of went a while unemployed. Er," he chuckled, "I worked odd, poorly-paying jobs for a few years before I got a job that paid well. They wanted me to do three times the work I could possibly do, so I quit, threw a vodka bottle at my boss' car, and... Well, you know how I ended up here."

Henry would never know it, but Y'Shtola was trying to find a way to allay his concerns, trying to find a way to say that he was probably the most educated man in the room. But, he had very little to _show_ for it, and just talked himself into a corner. It caused her no small amount of pain to see that, to recognize how he was only hurting himself, and she caught the looks of the other Scions.

"Fear not, Sir Gordon, thine expertise will become quite useful in the days ahead. The sheer breadth of education thou were given is a boon all its own. Thou art likely capable of seeing things in a lens that those of us inundated to the patterns of Eorzean life are entirely unable to comprehend," Urianger waxes, and there is a visible wince when Henry doesn't make eye contact with him.

"Yea, I guess," He sighs, standing from the table, "I'll be useful because I'm not useful."

Henry Gordon walked out of the room, leaving all of the Scions at the table. They exchanged looks, entirely unsure how to respond to that. Did they do something wrong? Was there something else at play? Was he going to be okay, and just _seemed_ like he was hurt by the exchange?

"I think he'll be fine," Thancred said, "He will be, won't he?"

Yda stood up and started after him, only to have Minfilia stop her: "Pray don't follow him, I believe he needs time to think." This made Yda pause, doubly so when Papalymo nodded. She stammered, trying to make some sort of reply, some sort of protest, but finding it outside of her power.

"Minfilia," Y'Shtola finally interrupted the silence, "Did you tell him about the Titan summoning?"

"Yes, Y'Shtola, I did," Minfilia says, "Why?"

Y'Shtola knew where his travels would take him. She teleported there, hoping to find him before he got too involved. Minfilia was wrong, terribly so, and none of the others would act against her statements in this regard. But Y'Shtola was always the one who bucked against that authority when it was right.


	7. Local Man Ruins Costa Del Sol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry Gordon finishes a series of chores for Gegeruju's workers, in hopes of obtaining the location of Titan's summoning. After he completes them, he stands ragged. For once, he doesn't blindly accept a chance to party.

Henry Gordon, slayer of Ifrit, budding Summoner, and glorified errand boy, felt his skin burning as he stood under the sun of Costa Del Sol. He blinked at a wide assortment of foods, drinks, and a company of adventurers that stood proudly displaying a feast they said was for him. He stared, emotions boiling within him.

“Henry?” Y’Shtola’s voice held a note of concern. She had no idea the dam she had burst, but knew that otherwise time would have frozen completely. She would regret this for a great time, because it would be one of the worst moments she had ever seen of Henry Gordon.

“You had me run all over this godforsaken rock,” Henry started quietly, “Searching for extinct grapes, to make wine for blind men, fight off untold monstrosities, do prep work, and _build a feast_ for myself.”

“Of course, it would be only fi-” the Roegadyn man, Wheiskaet, spoke, his voice ironically calm.

_“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?!”_ Henry shouted, throwing his arms straight down at his sides as he shouted, “The embodiment of a mountain’s rage is angling to shit on everything we know and love in this region and you want to _feast?!_ You want me to build my own feast, as some obscene hazing ritual? Some way to test my merit? Is that it?!”

There was a stunned silence.

“And!” Henry’s right index finger pointed to the sky, “And! We lost so much time to me nearly _dying alone in the fucking woods_ because you wanted to make sure I was determined! What a fucking shitshow you all run here! What a nice happy place to drink bottom-shelf swill and watch that Gegeruju-fuck gleefully creep on the dancers while the fucking _world ends_ , yea! Lemme get fat with the excess of some dumb fuckwit’s efforts and celebrate the fact that a company of adventurers survived a fight with Titan! Yea! That thing that’s back and rearin’ to _kill another company!_ Good idea! Only this time, it’s a _Grand_ Company it’s aiming to kill!”

“Now wait just a minute,” The Roegadyn held a hand up, trying to regain control of the scenario, Henry’s eyes fixated on him, the violet irises seemed to dance up and down the larger man’s form with seething hatred. This caused the man from the Company of Heroes to falter, despite the almost comical size difference, “W-we made this to re-”

“Reward me!” Henry cut him off, his hands swiping across his front, “Reward me and enjoy the bits I leave behind! My sloppy fuckin’ seconds! Yea! _Like fucking vultures!_ Except the carrion-feeders have the decency to stay the fuck away until the lion’s done eating!” Henry spat, nearly foaming at the mouth, “I cannot fucking _believe_ you people! Are you so divorced from reality you just decide to throw a party at the end of the world? A fucking _tropical feast like some sort of ex-Adventurer Jimmy Buffet?!_ Holy _shit_ I didn’t think I’d see something that made me nearly as mad as this, especially something I could compare to Jimmy _fucking Buffet!”_

“So you won’t-” Y’Shtola whispered, looking at the food and being unable to shake the feeling that he’d thrown it in the dirt already.

_“Oh I’m gonna fucking eat!_ Henry fuck-mothering Gordon is gonna clean his kill. I had to fight all manner of beasts, crawl through thorny thickets, and nearly die _twice_ for it. I’m gonna enjoy it. I will be suitably fed before suicide-charging into the face of Titan, ripping his aether out of him, and beating anything that remains into a pulp. Hell, I might make it a powder, cut a few lines, and _fucking snort them._ ”

It turned into the most tense banquet enjoyed by any of the participants, except for Henry Gordon. He consumed with gusto, shoveling as much as he could into his face as often as he could. When he needed to drink, he chose the finest wine. He nearly drank half the bottle before any of the group reminded him it was a rare flavor. Then he placed the bottle on the table, and slid it toward the one who reminded him. He then - with a strange politeness - asked a server to get him a wine that Gegeruju would normally drink. When asked about pay, he pointed at the Company of Heroes.

“They asked me to build this banquet, the least they can do is cover my tab.”

Henry drank nearly two hundred thousand gil worth of alcohol across four bottles of extremely expensive, imported liquors with staggering alcohol content. The Company of Heroes paid that tab in shame. He repeatedly reminded them that this was all their fault. As the alcohol hit him, his words slurred, but the spewing insults never ceased.

“A bunch of washed up has-beens wanted,” he laughed with a hiccup, “To see if the young buck could stand up with the best,” Henry upended a bottle to his lips, gulping loudly and messily, “And I’ll ssshow ‘em, show ‘em…” He slammed the bottle on the table, “I’ll outdrink, outeat, outrun, _and outfuck_ ‘em all.”

The night ran long. Henry refused to blackout, much to the chagrin to the Company. Y’Shtola was floored, but understood his frustrations enough not to call him out on his antics. She did notice though, that despite his claims, he had not once made a flirtatious gesture to a single person at the table. He drank, he ate, he danced to music, he sang, but he did not even attempt to make good on the final bit of his promise.

Refused drinks were met with insistence. Passed plates were returned to the one passing. Henry wanted a competition, and he was clearly winning, but he never once acted on his urges toward a woman. Nor a man. It was a hard read, but Henry seemed almost _too_ polite to the women serving the table. She sidled up to him, and touched his hand to get his attention. He turned, angry at first, but then he softened. His eyes locked onto her hand, it gently touching the back of his. He gulped, audibly.

“Henry,” she whispered, ducking under the piles of elaborate plates to conceal herself, her face, and her worries: “I can’t help but notice you’ve not even once raised your voice to the waitresses,”

There was a slight relaxation in his stance, he sighed, shaking his head and moving his hand away from hers. He pressed a bottle to his lips, and after a slow pull he put it down. She could tell he let the liquor float on his tongue for a moment, and felt the stunning realization that he had not been tasting anything the entire day.

“They just work here, Y’Shtola. None of them put this together, they just are here to serve food and, more or less, look pretty. If I weren’t so mad,” He hiccuped, “And I weren’t so drunk-” Henry stopped for a moment, seeing the table’s guests clutching their stomachs and generally looking foul, “I would be flirting with them. But, I can do one better.”

Henry clapped his hands, and made eye contact with the first waitress before apologizing for being so obnoxious with the clap. Y’Shtola and several others at the table were taken aback, because _that_ is what he apologized for?

“This _Company of Heroes_ has seen its fair share. Look at them, some heroes, right? You and your fellow servers have bent over backwards to help us. Tell Gegeruju to let go of his main squeeze, and let you all enjoy the feast. You earned it. You _deserve it_.”

Henry’s words came out composed, almost uncomfortably so. His stance however, swayed side-to-side, and he inhaled sharply. The servers heard his offer, and they slowly came to. He threw a lazy gesture to the dancers, nodding as if to say they should join too.

“This was to mourn those we lost,” the Roegadyn said, “And-”

“Yea, uh-huh. Teach me some lesson about what I was getting into, right? Show that to the ones we buried after fighting Ifrit.” Henry scowls, “Trust me. I wake up every _single fucking morning_ seeing those Tempered faces.”

The table fell silent. Wheiskaet looked down.

“And you know what I see behind them? Behind that bunch? I’ll _fucking tell you._ I see so many faces I can’t describe, people I feel like I’m supposed to know, lining up to get between me and some giant fuck-off monster. If I don’t just push through them, sending spells and summons at them, that monster eats me alive.”

A Hyur with blonde hair hears Henry speak, and he puts his fist to his chin in contemplation. Y’Shtola recognized him as Riol, and while she tried to imagine Henry’s visions she could not help but understand that Riol was doing more than _imagining_ them.

“And the best part?” Henry says, staring Wheiskaet down, violet eyes burning a hole in the downtrodden Roegadyn’s face, “Sometimes, behind that fucking horde? The monster is the Mother Crystal. Sending me on this warpath. Asking me to kill, and kill, _and fucking kill._ So no, I don’t give a rat’s ass about your absolutely stupid mourning ritual of getting fat while resting on _your fucking laurels_.”

Wheiskaet sank his head to the table, and Riol left without a sound. Y’Shtola blinked, and the man was gone. In fact, she would be hard-pressed to state whether or not she’d actually seen him there at all if asked.

The next day, Henry Gordon would find himself at a designated location, whistle for Riol Forrest, and when the two shook hands there was a strange level of respect between them.

“One survivor to another,” Riol said to Henry Gordon, and the two made their way to an Aetheryte with Y’Shtola in tow. With her guidance, Henry called upon a group of adventurers and wrestled the mountain into submission.

When Henry returned, his adventurers needed respite. He said to put it on the Company of Heroes’ tab. Wheiskaet threw his gauntlet down. They broke a boardwalk, and at one point Gegeruju was used as a bludgeon. Henry invented four new slurs for Roegadyn, introduced Eorzea to the phrase ‘On God,’ and Wheiskaet for the first time in years had his nose broken before he finally threw Henry through a dry-rotted plank on the boardwalk.

Every visit after that, Henry Gordon and Wheiskaet would have a drink together in respectful silence.


	8. Sorry I Don't Laugh At the Right Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Waking Sands attack hits Henry Gordon particularly hard. He considers a lot of things, finding himself at odds with his duty and unsure of how to move forward. Help comes from a plucky (and annoying) compatriot, who means well but manages to piss Henry off in ways he'll never understand.

Henry loaded the final corpse onto the carriage. Each body had become progressively heavier to bear as he moved them from their unceremonious resting place. His Echo told him all he needed to know. The Garleans had come into the Waking Sands, and obliterated everything. They abducted Minfilia, murdered all present Scions, and hoped they would get into Henry’s head. He had dealt with enough by this point to recognize the act of war.

The heaviest corpse was the smallest. He fell to his knees as the carriage left, and he sobbed. His whole body was shuddering from the sorrow, the grief, and he stared at his clenching hands once more. There was nothing he could have done: while he was saving the world from a Primal, the Garleans were raiding the Scions. They had found the nest of pests that stopped them from forcing the Beast Tribes to summon Primals, and for Henry’s ability to slay Primals without worry the Scions paid the price. Henry sat in the middle of Vesper Bay, slamming his hands into his eyes and howling.

He didn’t know those people, not well. But they were allies. Not particularly good ones, but the closest things to friends he’d had in this absolute Hellhole that called itself a ‘star.’ He cursed everything, he threw rocks at walls, and he fell backwards before curling into a ball at the front gates of the place. Eventually, night fell and he wandered to the bar. He drank.

And drank.

And drank.

As the alcohol finally hit him, he wanted to be angry, to be so passionately filled with rage as to strike the Garlean Emperor in the throat, but the only thing he felt was a growing nausea. Someone asked him if he was alright, before he ran to the docks. Falling with his face over the edge of a pier, he began hurling into the gently lapping water. His vision blurred, and before long, the nausea passed. The dying Sylph had relayed an order to him before it died, and he felt too drained from vomiting to do anything but go to the mentioned church.

Once there, he buried those he considered, at least, brothers-in-arms. He had never had a family that wasn’t blood before them, and despite being far from competent at it, they wanted to help him. Even if it was just because he was the only hope against Primals they could reliably call upon, they were there for him.

The events from there were a complete blur. He restored Cid nan Garlond’s memories, and at the graves of his now-resting Scions, he rolled some herbs into a piece of paper and produced a match. Next to him was a bottle of vodka, and a puddle where he poured out shots for the deceased. He heard the crunch of footsteps, and he stood up slowly. Resting on the gravestone, he put his right hand in his pocket and tapped the end of his hand-rolled cigarillo while staring despondently at the grave. He recognized the steps, sort of. Short, but not Lalafell short.

_Alphinaud._

Henry took a long drag from his smoke, and exhaled the smoke with a cough. He snorted, stifling a sob with a ragged exhalation. It was partly why he sought out a smoke: the tobacco in Eorzea wasn’t nearly as nasty as what he was used to from New Jersey. Two habits he thought he’d kicked came up after having to bury his allies in a hole in the desert. He looked to the young Elezen, and saw a look of determination in the kid’s eyes. He already knew he’d hate what the spoiled child had to say.

“I’m going to resurrect the Scions,” the boy’s voice spoke. Unsullied by experience, fueled by determination, Alphinaud Leveilleur honestly believed his own words, “The other nations are too incompetent to fully stand up to the threats within, much less the ones without. Without an organization like the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, they will fall prey to-”

Henry took a long hit from his cigarillo and hit his head against the headstone he was leaning against. He groaned, exhaling the smoke as he did so.

“When the fuck do you _get off?_ ” Henry asked, rolling his eyes so hard that Alphinaud had to have felt it. Henry took another long drag off the cigarillo, tapping the end of it to free it of ash. He held in the smoke, hoping it would kill him.

“Excuse me?” Alphinaud said, leaning back as Henry spoke, “Do you not feel angry at wha-”

“I feel plenty fuckin’ angry,” Henry said, smoke billowing from his nostrils after he spoke, an exhalation leaving his nose with pure derision, “Every time you _talk._ If you want to rebuild the Scions, do it. Count me out, though.”

“B-but!”

“Oh ‘b-b-b-but!’ my ass. All these people died because of me. I don’t remember if I told you about my Echo. The Garleans just wanted the guy who stomped Ifrit down. They didn’t even know I got Titan. They know less about our little stunt we’re gonna pull in Coerthas. We’d probably be burying Minfilia if they knew.”

“Henry I-”

“Alphinaud, I don’t give a shit. Too many died because I didn’t become a smear on New Jersey pavement.”

“And more will die if you don’t do anything!” Alphinaud shouted, despite himself. Henry’s breath stopped, and he was given a moment of sheer dissonance. He stared at his shaking hand, ash slowly coming off the cigarillo. He felt his stomach turn, and he steadied his uneasiness by taking a final drag from his handrolled cigarillo and flicked the smoldering paper off to the side. He took a hit from the vodka bottle, and then poured the rest over each grave. He set the bottle down, and looked to Alphinaud.

“I really fucking hate when you’re right, you know that?”

“Pardon?!”

“A kid like you shouldn’t be doing this kind of work. Shouldn’t be good at it.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Someday, I’ll tell you. When I’m old and you’re in _your_ twenties, I’ll sit you down. Assuming, of course, we don’t end up with our heads on pikes.”

_“Heads on pikes?!”_

“Yea,”

“What in blazes are you even on about?! How drunk are you?”

“Drunk enough to feel numb. Feeling wired enough from my smoke to function. Good enough.”

“Why did you pour out so much?”

“It’s an old phrase where I come from. ‘Pour one out for the homies,’ which has some nuance and context but the point is that you pour out liquor to show reverence. Wanting to get drunk myself and not buy a bottle for each of them, I did it with shots of vodka. If I wanted to take a shot, I made sure they all got one too. I wasn’t about to let them miss out on the last drink we’d share.”

“In this case, ‘homies’ are friends, yes?”

“Yea, actually that’s it exactly.”

“Would you consider us ‘homies,’ Henry?”

“No,” Henry stood from the grave, and as he turned Alphinaud saw Henry’s face in full. He’d been crying for at least an hour. And tears were flowing the entire time they were talking, “Anyone I consider a homie has a tendency to die. Don’t strive to be my friend.”


	9. Boring, But I Overcompensate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "stunt" to recover the 'Enterprise' goes almost without a hitch. However, a particular dragon finds itself the lone obstacle between a nearly-broken man and his goal. It learns too late that not all who are tired are weakened by their fatigue.

The dragon Isgebind slept soundly, until a petulant ant woke it. The ant had a big speech, something with delusions and grandeur that only Men could find interesting. Isgebind awoke, slowly at first, then with an exponentially increasing anger. The ant bit at the dragon’s toe, and the dragon would respond with hellfire. It was enjoying its prize: a strange human machine with magic-but-not-magic, some strange ingenuity born of the alien rationale of Man. Why create a machine to fly? Why use aether and its trappings to simulate magic to such an extent that it would propel a machine?

It was dull. A boring solution designed by boring things. And at the front of a small party of ants was a particularly boring Man. His eyes were purple and smoldering like amethysts, but the fire had left them eons ago. There was a delay in their reactions, the man was inebriated. This would be a simple weakness to exploit. The dragon charged past the one with the sword and shield, swiping him away with its tail. Something was underneath those eyes, something that drew forward a predatory instinct.

Was it a fascination with death?

Was it a want to flirt with an end?

Isgebind did not know. Such a thing was beyond its purview and far below its care. What it _did_ know was that this being summoned creatures like very, very old and dead Men. What else did this being do? Isgebind chomped at his form, watching him dodge and run with a preternatural effectiveness. The being was always just a little beyond reach, slightly off-center, and always able to cast a stinging spell. The dragon had enough, and eventually created a wall of ice between the other creatures and this one. It would single out this amethyst-eyed being, it would consume him, and it would taste his aether.

A lucky swipe, an overconfident dodge, Henry Gordon slammed against the wall, holding his hand to his shoulder to stem bleeding from an open wound. It should have been fatal, Henry knew that. And as he staggered to stand he watched one of his other adventurer cohorts pounding on the icy wall. He heard the shouting of Alphinaud and Cid, he felt something tugging at him. He listed to one side, and after blinking heavily he saw the flow of aether about the arena as his eyes took on an ethereal glow. There was a significant amount of it in the wall, and despite its outwardly locked appearance it was fluid. It could be guided, coaxed, _used._ He reached out with his own aether, connecting to it.

All Isgebind needed to do was corner him, refuse him any avenues of escape, and the dragon would have its meal. The others could take the prize, if it could taste this particular specimen’s aether. It wanted to know what was under those eyes. What the dull violet blooms concealed, whether the stems of his eyes had thorns. It stomped closer, watching the man throw his book down, scowling as his eyes took on a flame. The dragon blinked, and was forced to do so again. Something was in _its_ eyes.

And then it blinked again.

Soon, Isgebind realized that it was magically blinded. The creature roared in defiance, its will pushing _something_ back and letting it see. The small thing had become mighty, aether pouring from its form in a way that the dragon had not previously sensed. Isgebind swung its head to ram Henry, seeing its conjured, icy walls melting rapidly. Much faster than they should have been. Henry was singing. Lyrics that had no meaning to anyone but Henry.

“Baby, seasons change but people don’t,” Henry belted, a hand moving forward to catch the dragon’s skull with a strange, icy staff, “And I’ll always be waiting in the backroom. I’m boring, but I overcompensate with headlines and flash, flash, flash photography,”

Isgebind suddenly felt very, very, _painfully_ cold. Its eyes adjusted, and it watched Henry Gordon's staff form from the chilly air as sound itself was slowed and frozen under the effects of his arcane might. It froze to his arm, joining the elbow to his torso and forming a gauntlet around the staff. Henry looked as if he were a Hyur-shaped statue of permafrost. However, this did not limit his movement, no, it <em>enhanced</em> it. He floated off the ground, and Isgebind watched Henry pour globules of ice from the staff and splash them on draconic scales as if they were water balloons lazily launched from a three-pronged staff. Limiting what little movement it had left, Isgebind's legs locked to the stone. The ice started in the soles of its feet, then so thoroughly permeated its body that it felt the pain in its joints, which caused the dragon to thrash and wail. The small thing! It was so small! What was this sorcery!? How dare it-

“But don’t pretend you _ever_ forgot about me, don’t pretend you ever forgot about _me,_ ” Henry shouted lyrically, lifting the staff over his head and slamming its base into the stone.

 _I will swear vengeance on-_ The final thoughts of Isgebind, the great wyrm of the Dravanian Horde, were stretched into eons of time as its thrashing slowed. As its mind ceased to operate at a reasonable speed, it felt an unbearable pain pour through its body. This crawling agony filled everything, its vision tunneling and the colors smearing as if everything were suddenly moving far faster than it could have ever comprehended. The dragon's mind would try to finish the sentence in its own personal Hell, a frozen prison. Instants became eons as ice crystals encased its humors, the dragon's roar frozen in time as the sickening sound of glaciers crashing into one another filled the skies. To anyone beyond the dragon's perception, millenia of suffering were shattered in moments as its body exploded into trillions upon trillions of pieces moments after Henry's staff tapped the ground. Feral drakes enraged by the death of Isgebind charged the Outlander, Henry Gordon. Drawn into a frenzy, they were all cooled by the massive outpouring of Ice aspected aether from Henry Gordon’s Limit Break. He pushed farther than he ever had, ripping from the Calamity-induced winter to permanently cool whatever scattered remnants wanted to keep the Vigil.

Something else rode the ice-aether. Bitterness. Anger. Showmanship. It all came together, a terrifying display of fury encased in snow. Where another hero would have been a blazing inferno of Light, Henry Gordon was a terrifying jailer, slamming shut the barred doors of icy imprisonment on his foes. Alphinaud Leveilleur, grandson to the great Louisoix Leveilleur, watched with no small amount of wonder. The Outlander vanished into the Stone Vigil, and he shuddered every single time he heard the muffled report of that icy staff slamming into the ground. The shattering of glass followed, as well as the screaming of innumerable drakes. The other adventurers took their rewards and left, with haste.

“He’s… He’s going to be okay, isn’t he?” Cid nan Garlond spoke, gently, a bit of concern in his voice that Alphinaud did not detect as fearful, “Will he come back to us?”

“I believe so,” Alphinaud postulated, “He found a surfeit of aether and is pushing it outward. It certainly is disturbing to watch, however, how _effortlessly_ he is doing it, but I believe this is just what happens when he performs what we call a Limit Break.”

“I see,” Cid said, fully unaware of the intricacies of such magical things as Limit Breaks, but having a vague awareness of their existence, “So this will not be his norm?”

“I certainly hope not. There is something terrifying in this, something I hope we never see again.”

“Oh?”

“When he was cornered, he simply put his book down. He stood, and the dragon was utterly stunned. Did you see why?”

“I’d prefer you were just out with it, Alphinaud,”

“It was a subtle trick, but he threw debris in its eyes as he tossed the book aside. I thought it was initially just a rock or something, but I believe it was a material component to a spell of some sort. He _magically_ blinded it, and then tapped into the ice aether of the area. The latter process took less time than his Blinding spell bought him, and he used the extra time to make that song into a verbal component for a spell that-” The nausea-inducing sound of a dragon's roar slowing to a whine, followed by a glacier splintering under the weight of another glacier's slow advance, shook Alphinaud to his core and cut his flow of thought.

There was a moment of silence, and Cid waved his hand in a circular motion. Partly to pull Alphinaud from his trance, but more to coax a thought from his own mind.

“Sorry, it’s just… I remembered something from my studies. The way he manipulated that aether is something of a theoretical means. He isn’t so much _channeling_ the aether as much as he is joining with it. He uses the ice aether in his being to direct a larger flow, but it does not enter his body, despite his appearance.”

“So like a control module, but with his aether?”

Alphinaud blinked, looking to Cid, and back to the Vigil. Another tap, another series of screams, and the sickening sound of crystallization with an unspeakable auditory warping filling the sky. Alphinaud shuddered.

“And by him not coursing it through his body, he manages to avoid any problems of permanent shape-changing. _He_ is coursing through _it,_ shaping and guiding it in the process of just ‘swimming’ through what’s available.”

“I-” Alphinaud was speechless, “That’s a wonderfully succinct way to explain this! It’s exactly as I once read in an old, recovered Allagan text back in Sharlayan. Did you study there?”

“No, just following what my mechanical expertise intuits. I imagine he could not do this for very long, unless there was a great surplus of the aether to use. Such as, say, in a snowstorm like we’re in now. Or when cornered by an ice-breathing dragon.”

“Precisely, Henry would be subject to undocumented effects if this persisted for too long. I believe though the spell would wear out soon enough, and Henry would-”

Almost as if on cue, Henry Gordon entered the open court where the shattered remains of Isgebind once stood. He levitated ilms off the ground, nearly encased in ice himself, before he looked to Cid and Alphinaud. He twirled the icy staff in his hand, effortlessly, before tapping the base of it to the ground. It dispersed, and Henry lowered to the ground. Alphinaud shuddered, as that warped sound rattled the fluids in his ears. Wordlessly, Henry walked toward the Airship, and Cid began repairing it with haste.

Alphinaud did not notice it until they were in the air, but as he went over the events and went to scribe them into a journal, he realized that they did not enter the Stone Vigil in a snowstorm, but that Henry’s Limit Break created one. He considered for a moment, what it was like to die in a shattering of Ice-aspected aether.

Time stretching out into oblivion, moments stretching into eternities until eventually awareness simply ceased. Would the frozen victims be aware of their death as it happened, or would they be locked into a slow, agonizing death of seconds stretched into years as they watched a veritable golem of ice bring the end of a staff down into the ground? Alphinaud considered the snowstorm. He looked to Henry Gordon, who drew another hit from a flask of foul-smelling liquor.

Alphinaud shuddered at the power of the Warrior of Light.


	10. When the Moon Met The Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After discovering the fate of Yda Hext and Y'Shtola Rhul, Henry Gordon sits and rests for a moment. He is stricken with a vision, and he finds a sun to his moon. They meet when the sky is golden, and stay under waking sands for some time.

Henry awoke with a start, his mind roaring in pain as another LSD trip kicked off. It was as if his occipital nerves were on fire, and the part of his brain that regulated dreams kicked into overdrive to deaden his brain once more. He slumped against the wall with a groan.

“Fuckin’ LSD rock-” He moaned, to the surprise of everyone else as he shifted his mind’s eye to some cosmic background. He opened his eyes, seeing a cataclysmic rain of fire that filled him with dread and sorrow. A form of mnemonic muscle memory caused his hands to form gestures and his arms to wave about: he sought to create a barrier and deflect the hellfire on something below him. He felt the weight of trillions on his shoulders, if only for a moment, and his shoulders shrugged them off.

He knew what he had to do, and it pained him so much to shrug those lives from his shoulders. But, there was an unshakeable threat, and he had to win. IT was alone and IT won. As he heard the cries of untold masses, yet unnamed, he realized that now he was alone. And because he was alone, HE could win. But his victory would be short, and he felt a need to come back. Again, and again, and again. This filled him with great, terrible sorrow, but he let the fires baptise him as _something_ broke. The shattering was deafening, and he felt it in his chest, but eventually it faded to a white light with a soft, matronly voice.

As he returned to primary control of his body in this strange vision, he saw the massive crystal he’d only known by vague names, and odd dreams. It spoke to him, giving him some vague tips, but once it finished he felt anger well up in his chest. Hydaelyn warned him of someone, something, a title that held strange familiarity. Was this the Ascian she spoke of? Had to have been. But, she began to dismiss him once her warning was spent. He screamed.

“You’re ever with me, huh?!” He shouted into the space outside of space, “Why me? Eh? Why can’t you prepare someone who is made for this?! You bloated crystal bitch, tell me why! So many dead because of you! I’ll-” He continued to shout a string of obscenities, swinging his arms about wildly and knocking himself from his alignment before launching into a freefall. He threw his fist forward, which propelled him head-over-heels backwards. Tumbling, he screamed denials. He wasn’t done with her, he insisted fervently as his mind began to return to the land of the living. His eyes opened, and he recognized that Yda was holding his fists.

“Henry, you’re scaring us! Come back to us!” She said with an exasperated sigh, her eyes watering, “You’re speaking craziness!” Henry’s fists were balled tight, but Yda’s hands were soft. Warm, even. He felt calmed in a way he hadn’t felt in a while, and it shook him to his core. He pulled her close to him, his arms under hers, and he was too occupied with the emotional release to recognize her adjusting as an inconvenience. He wept.

He wept things he could never name, people he could never save. He wept for his home, for the fact he’d never go home again. When he pondered what home he missed so badly, he could not name it. That made him feel worse, because not only did he fail to name it, but he quickly understood that it was not New Jersey. Another home. His naivety, perhaps?

“I’m sorry,” He choked a sob, “I’m sorry I couldn’t-”

“Hush now,” Yda said, one of her arms under his left and the other over his right as they awkwardly hugged sitting down. Henry was turned to his right, Yda her left, and they rocked gently, “You’re here. With me.”

Y’Shtola entered the room, Henry could tell by her discussion with Cid and Alphinaud, but the others all slowly shuffled from the room. Henry felt one of them stayed longer than the other two, as if the sensation of their presence tickled his spine, but then they left with slow, heavy steps. He was too focused on this embrace to open his eyes and understand which Scion it was that left. The double doors closed behind the lingering Scion, which caused Henry’s dam to fail once more.

“I saw things and-”

“Don’t,” Yda assured him, squeezing him tight, “Don’t tell me. Focus on the here. The now. The others have left, and now it’s me and you. Please, try to come back to me.”

Henry’s arms slackened, softly wrapping around her waist with only slight adjustment. He rested his face into the base of her neck, muffling his sobbing. After a point, he lost entirely the reason he was grieving, just that he was. Did he feel sorrow for his youth? For the world he thought was so bright and charming when he landed? Or was he filled with a longing his lexicon had no words for? He tried his best to name it, finding his head only hurt the more he considered it. Eventually, he gave up on the idea and found it much easier to focus on the physical comfort he was receiving, and how his leaking eyes were soaking the collar of her shirt.

“I’m a mess, Yda, and I-” Henry began, and the woman moved her arms from the embrace to push him in front of her, she wore a scowl. It was one of determination, rather than scolding.

“Henry Gordon, the only one who can clean yourself up is you. But that doesn’t mean I can’t give you the broom and pan,” she nodded, “If I have to hold you in my arms all night, I will.”

Henry smiled, and noticed a tuft of blonde hair had fallen from her mask. He had a hard time thinking of anything more beautiful, but this made him wince. He was falling, hard. Perhaps she was, too? He could not tell, but he wanted to know. He doubted himself, despite how badly he wanted to ask.

“Henry?” She said, as his hand moved to her hair, and his finger delicately pressed it between his thumb, “Are you-”

“Y-you said you’d h-” He stammered, “That you’d hold me all night. That sounds wonderful, actually, but, are you sure? I mean, I’m a drunk and-”

“You’re someone who is lost. Painfully so. If I can be a beacon for you to come home to, I will.” She nodded, affirming to herself that it was the right thing to say.

“But I don’t-”

She kissed him. It was deep. He was surprised, his arms coming up to defend initially, but as she broke away from the kiss, Henry’s hands moved to her mask. Gingerly, at first, he started to remove it, but her hand slowly guided his to her neck.

There was a wound, there, in Henry’s face. It pained Yda to see it, and the New Jersey Native gave a weak smile.

She sighed, shakily, moving her own hands to remove the mask. As she does so, Henry’s jaw slackens. He stares into sapphire eyes, and gulps. This causes Yda to smirk, blinking slowly as his hand moves to the base of her jaw.

“You hide this from the world,” He says softly, running his right thumb over her cheek, “What makes me so special that I get to see the face of Yda Hext?”

“No,” she shakes her head, “This is the face of a friend. And friends should know how one another look, shouldn’t they?” She chuckles, and the emotion infects Henry, who also chuckles despite his nervousness at the ordeal he was in.

“You consider me a friend?” He says, gingerly laughing, “Even when I’m-”

“Even when you’re in the bottle, though, if I’m to be fair, I prefer it when you aren't.”

The pair moved to a bench in the room, never once breaking their embrace. Henry moved his hands to her hips, kissing her as they adjusted to be together on such an impromptu space as the wooden bench. As his heart raced, Henry came to a realization. He was the moon, or something dark, and he was barely holding on. He chuckled, looking into the sun that was the woman in his arms. He was barely holding on, but as he looked into the gems of her eyes, he felt he could be saved.

“Y’know,” He chuckled, “There’s a song I could sing here. From home,”

“Oh?” She asked, sliding a hand up his torso and under his shirt, stopping where his heart was, “Well, don’t leave me in suspense!”

He sang softly, at first. Of the Sun and Moon, falling in love in the middle of summer. Henry and Yda fell in love, perhaps not in a lasting sense, but if the world ended while they were in this embrace neither of them would have complained.

As the Star moved to night, the sky was golden. They promised not to break one another’s heart, and as Yda brought Henry to port once more, they exchanged smiles and names. He was just hanging around, but he fell in love.

They both did.


End file.
